Some thoughts on Valentine's day
by Hecate.12
Summary: Bridget on valentines day. Rated R for swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own this, am making no money from it etc. It all belongs to Helen Feilding.**

****

**Some thoughts on Valentines Day**

**_February 14th__. Calories: Too many to keep track of._**

_                        Cigarettes: 80_

_                        Alcohol units: Oh, thousands._

Valentines Day. Wake to find self wallowing in self pity (Also known as vast quantities of Vodka). Am alone. Again. Again. Hate self. Know should not be feeling this, as am woman of the 20th century, and should be at peace with my own self worth. So why do I feel so god awful? Ooh – telephone.

Was Jude, blubbering down phone in sheep's voice, saying how Vile Richard had not bought her anything, and told her she was daft for buying him a rather expensive watch. Apparently Valentine's Day is a pointless waste, and is merely an excuse for blatant commercialism. Was enraged by his attitude. Surely it doesn't matter how commercialised the day is, you should still make a fuss of your loved one on Valentines? However, in this case "Blatant commercialism" means "I haven't bought you anything and I'm not going to, because I don't give a shit." Poor Jude. 

Wonder if it is better to have no-one, or to have someone who doesn't care? Hmm.

Sod this, am going to shop to buy more Vodka. 

_Later. Was probably not the best idea to go to the shop clad only in a vest top and tiny pair of knickers, in February. Had to endure builders, teenage boys and such like shouting at me, as I tried to look at the floor. Oh God. Hate self. Hate men. Love Vodka._

_Later. Mmm, Vodka is blurry loverly. Really feel as though should forgive world, for being such a bastard. Mmm. Whoops! Fallen over! Hmm… wonder if Daniel Cleaver is home…_

Have called Daniel, and left loverly gooey message, all hearts and flowers. One should admit to one's feelings, and embrace them. Wonder if there's any Cognac left…

**15th February.**

Oh. My. God. Am going to have to leave country and lives with wolves, in manner of Kevin Costner. Am laughing stock. Am crap at everything. Am never, ever, ever going to drink again for as long as I live. I apparently called Daniel last night and professed my undying love to him, telling him I'd die for him, that love knew no bounds. Oh God. What the hell am I going to say at work today?

_A/N: I know this was pants, but please review! It doesn't take very long now does it? Go on review!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own this, am making no money from it etc. It all belongs to Helen Fielding.**

**_15th February_**

**_                        Continued_**

Tread. Very. Quietly. Try not to make too much noise. Head feels like I have small hamsters with tiny but very real hammers knocking away in there. Oh God. Spent morning with head down toilet getting rid of what seemed like everything I'd ever eaten. Think will just go back to bed for a little while, just to lie my head down. 

Oh Christ am late for work. Bugger.

Quite nice morning really. Did not see Daniel all morning, and everyone was looking at me, smiling. Was v. pleased with self for projecting confident image to others, and perfecting inner poise. 

Have just looked in mirror, only to find I have been walking around all day with knickers stuck to skirt. I can not do anything right. Wolves here I come. Would perhaps have not been so bad if knickers had been lacy thong, maybe people would have thought I'd got lucky. But no. Knickers were huge kidney warmers, with a hole in. Am desperately racking brain trying to remember who I saw today, and where I've been. 

Have just had mad knicker-throwing-out session, getting rid of any knickers that are grey, or full of holes, or just vile. Feel surprisingly fulfilled, as if throwing out old underwear is new form of spiritual epiphany. Maybe could write new self help book, using old pants and bras as v. clever metaphor for life's problems! Imagine self at book signings, making people jealous with how thin I am (I will of course lose three stone through the torture of writer's block.) Think will tell Jude and Shazzer of fantastic plan tonight at 192. Ooh! Bugger, is 8 o'clock and am still in house-coat. Bugger.

Shazzer made v. good point about new old underwear concept. "But Bridge, once you've written 'throw out all your old knickers' what are you left with?" Realise now cannot write entire book based on one concept. Will instead bask in glory of keeping wonderful self revelation secret to self. Am determined to move onto wardrobe now, and throw out clothes which no longer fit Must realise I am never going to be a size eight and must stop buying things telling self I will diet into them. Should be happy with appearance and accept self for who I am. (Or is that whom? No, it _is who). Marilyn Monroe after all, was size 16 and is one of the most beautiful people ever. Although, am not Marilyn Monroe. Am the beached whale that is Bridget Jones. Am not sitting in gorgeous mansion in Beverly Hills, but a small flat in London, on own, watching __friends and eating an entire tub of ice-cream. Sod this, am going to bed._

****

****

****

**_Author's note: __This chapter was short, but I wasn't going to write another one! Any tips on where this story should go would be greatly appreciated! _**

_This is set before the first book, so she hasn't met Mark yet.       _

_Please review! They make me happy! _


	3. Chapter 3

**_16th February _**

****

**_AM_**

Could not be bothered to go to work today. Also was far too humiliated by knickers-on-skirt incident to show face in office. Also am annoyed that due to knicker-throwing –out bonanza yesterday, have only two pairs of knickers in entire flat. Shit. Will have to go shopping now. Shit. 

Went to Mark and Spencer's today to buy knickers. Realised that underwear is very expensive, with small cheese string-like piece of flimsy material costing two pounds bloody fifty. Seems pointless really, to spend money on nice underwear when have no boyfriend to see it. Still, we live in hope…

**PM**

God. Am so bloody pissed off. Will it never end? Mum just rang, and said that I just simply _had to meet Joseph Morris, a teacher from Grafton Underwood. How bloody marvellous. So instead of spending a night in a drunken stupor, watching the delicious Colin Firth in a wet shirt, am being forced to dress like an old woman's tea cosy and sit listening to some fart arse old twat telling me about the state of the education system. Great. Can't bloody wait. _

"Oh darling, here you are at last. What are you wearing?"  _Here it comes I thought to myself.  "Go upstairs and put on what I've laid out for you." Ah mum. So predictable. I went upstairs to find, as predicted, an old woman's tea cosy. Something in beige chintz. How glamorous. Carefully walked downstairs to avoid hitting the disgusting mouse-like creature on the stairs, which is supposed to be a door stop. So why on God's green earth does my mother insist on leaving it on the stairs? Perhaps she is a secret misanthropist and wants to wipe out the entire population of Grafton Underwood. Death By Door Stop. Middle Aged Woman Kills Five. _

"Darling, there you are. Honestly Bridget how long does it take? Come and meet Joseph, He's been simply _dying to meet you." __I very much doubt that mother. I followed my mother into the living room ("__Lounge darling, lounge") And am instantly taken aback by the sight of a gorgeous the man standing in front of me. Tall, dark haired, with a roman nose. Wow. Perhaps this time mum had got it right. That is, until said gorgeous man opens mouth to speak. "Well well well, it'th ickle Bwidget. I'm Joseph. How are you awfully." Oh dear God. Mum has tried to set self up with Pompous Twat With A Baby-Talk Complex And A Speech Impediment™. Bloody marvellous. Pour self large glass of whiskey and sit down as far from said twat as possible. Which is easier said than done, without idiot mother forcing me to sit next to him. Oh shit. _

Two hours on, and Twat has still not _shut up. As predicted, he begun to ramble on about the state of the education system. I DON'T CARE. I spent my school years smoking behind bike shed, carrying on glorious tradition. Still, this whiskey is nice. _

Blurry love dis whiskey. Mmm. Must make generous effort to talk to twa…Joseph. After all, what is world but lovely fluffy plane of existence in which we all must love each other. Think will take him up on offer of coffee at his place…     


End file.
